


boy next door

by rjosettes



Series: Tumblr Fics [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Meet-Cute, Minor Liam Dunbar/Mason Hewitt, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjosettes/pseuds/rjosettes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she pulls into her mother’s driveway the next weekend, something feels subtly different that she can’t put her finger on until she opens her car door. Everything smells green, overwhelming her nose until she sneezes. The lawn is neatly cut and whatever leaves should’ve been in the yard by this time of year just…aren’t. Not even raked into a pile, just gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	boy next door

**Author's Note:**

> '“PROMPT! Scydia + You just moved into the house next to my mom’s and she has you doing her yard work” AU'

Every weekend, between three and seven on Sunday afternoon (to allow for weather, traffic, and the potential young adult dread of doing something that is really not all that bad, but isn’t actually necessary) Lydia visits her mother in the new house. She knows it isn’t new by far - removed some of the weird late 70s decorating choices the last family had clung to herself, even - but she’s never lived in it, thanks to good luck with roommates in college. It will always be the new house as long as she remembers the old house, her baby pink bedroom and high school study dates. The new house feels cleaner, in a way. She feels more comfortable having dinner at her mother’s round two-seater dinner table than she had after the divorce, picking at her plate, the room feeling far emptier though only one chair more was left unfilled.

She misses a weekend for Allison’s sake in the early fall. She didn’t think she’d be dealing with babymergencies at this stage of her life (or ever, more likely) but as a godmother she feels a little obligated. Luckily, Allison actually takes care of the baby while Lydia juggles everything else going on - handfuls of Argent and Hale relatives, far more personalized thank you notes, and finding places to stack all of the gifts until someone can actually sort through them. She loves Allison, truly, and seeing her happy and domestic is cuter than she’d admit, but she’s happy to sleep in her own bed Sunday night without worrying about being woken by a wailing infant.

When she pulls into her mother’s driveway the next weekend, something feels subtly different that she can’t put her finger on until she opens her car door. Everything smells green, overwhelming her nose until she sneezes. The lawn is neatly cut and whatever leaves should’ve been in the yard by this time of year just…aren’t. Not even raked into a pile, just gone. She pulls a tissue out of her purse to dab at her nose as she scans the property for anything else suspicious. No sudden lawn furniture (out front, at least) and the porch is still a mess, rickety swing looking like it might drop any moment now. Her mother’s hired lawn services, then.

 

They talk about Allison first that night, baby Fletcher and the responsibilities that come with him. What Allison will do once her maternity leave is over (go back to the family business) and what the Hales are like (tall and mostly kind, with a few exceptions). There’s only so much to say about her two-day visit, though, and when they wind back around to everyday things like Lydia’s work at school and her mother’s recent dating habits, the lawn comes up.

“A nice boy and his family moved in next door,” she says, smiling fondly. “I offered to pay him by check every week but he wouldn’t take more than twenty dollars. You just missed him, actually, when you got here. He went home for dinner.” That’s all she has to say about it, and Lydia only briefly frets that a young family next door might make her mother melancholy. Her mother is fine. Lydia would say she was aging gracefully if there was any evidence that she was actually aging. She’s working, keeping up with her friends, checking in on Lydia the same way she would have in her freshman year.

In fact, she’s late for their next dinner. Lydia’s already two miles away when her mother texts to say she’s bringing takeout. Her spa day ran longer than expected. Lydia tries to remember what an entire spa day feels like. She hasn’t had a proper manicure since Allison’s wedding. Certain things have to be sacrificed at times, and she can paint a straight line with both hands after a decade of practice. She forgives her mother until she drives up and remembers there’s no Hide-a-Key because no one else lives here. The steering wheel cover squeaks under her fists gripping tighter in frustration until she notices that things have changed here yet again. The rusty chains holding the porch swing up have been replaced, shiny silver. The swing itself is pale blue, neatly painted, instead of the chipping white that had revealed the wood beneath. She considers for a few moments, checks her cell phone for the time, and resolutely climbs out of the car.

 

She tugs the chains a few time to make sure the new setup is sturdy – are teenaged boys to be trusted with this kind of thing? - and is relatively satisified. She smooths her skirt under her legs and -

 

“Hey, no!” A shout comes from the edge of the house and she straightens up to face the boy who comes running toward the steps. Or the man. Those biceps don’t spell boy to her. He pulls up short of the steps, hands in his hair, looking relieved. “Okay, good. Great. You’ll ruin your clothes if you sit there, Liam just finished painting it.”

 

“Liam,” she repeats, moving a few hesitant feet toward the porch rail. “Is that your little brother, or…?”

 

“Sort of,” the guy says, beaming at her, dropping his hands to air out his tank top. Sticking to his skin with sweat. Hold yourself together, Lydia, it hasn’t been that long. “I was working on the back today, so I got him to help me out. I hope Mrs. Martin doesn’t mind.”

 

“I doubt she’ll mind anything, today. She’s on her way back from a massage. Is she going to reimburse you for the paint? I can take care of that.” She reaches into her bag for her wallet, hoping she actually has cash among her cards. 

 

“Uh,” she hears, uncertain, and she looks up. “It was left over from painting Liam and Mason’s bathroom, actually. No need to pay me for it. Just the regular twenty. Are you her assistant? She seems like she might have a personal assistant.” He squints a little from the bottom of the stairs, like he’s looking at something too bright for his eyes, and it exaggerates all of his features. Brown eyes, crooked jaw, an open smile for a stranger. 

 

She clears her throat when he shifts, realizing she hasn’t answered. Her high school laugh comes back, the audible version of brushing her shoulders off, and she shakes her head. “She’s my mother. When she told me a family moved in next door, I assumed she had a junior high schooler mowing her lawn. Not…”

 

“Not a grad student,” he finishes. “We’re not exactly a traditional family, but a whole house isn’t exactly cheap. There are five of us, we’re all still in school except for Malia.”

 

“Your girlfriend?”

 

“Best friend’s girlfriend,” he corrects, and she can see the twinkle in his eye, like he’s laughing at her. Not making fun of her, just. Amused. “And Liam and his boyfriend. If we had another bedroom, there’d probably be more of us. It’s more space than we’re used to, anyway. Apartments.”

 

She nods, though she doesn’t understand at all. She’s never shared living space with anyone but her parents and Allison, and it’s been a few years since that, even. “You should let my mom pay you more. She’s not hurting for it, and I’m sure you all could use it. You do a beautiful job with the lawn. I hope you’re not burning the leaves.”

 

“Oh, no!” He perks up even more, tipping onto the balls of his feet. “Malia composts with them. That’s like, her thing. Malia’s plants and I’m animals. Stiles handles people. Trying to cover all our bases.”

 

“I’m numbers,” she blurts, dragging her lip between her teeth by instinct right after. The teetering point – the moment when she’s not sure this kind of boy likes women that are smarter than them. She tells herself she’s years beyond caring about the kind who doesn’t, but she’s left licking the lipstick from her teeth all the same. “I’m working on a doctorate in mathematics.”

 

“Wow.” His eyebrows shoot up. The silence stretches a second, two, and then his smile grows from bright to blinding. “We really could’ve used you a few years back. Passing math was always a group effort. We should’ve moved here sooner. We could’ve traded the lawn work for homework help, maybe.” There’s a shout from next door and a tall girl with brown hair appears in the doorway. The boy waves, signals two minutes at her and shoos her back inside. “Sorry. Dinnertime. You, um. You visit your mom a lot?”

 

“Every weekend,” Lydia answers faintly. She’s watching him back away from the porch one step at a time, easing toward home. “On Sunday.”

 

“Sunday,” he repeats. “Right. Yeah, I’ll…maybe I’ll see you next week. Ms. Martin.” He turns and jogs away, hopping the low edge between the properties. She feels young, like she’s watching a boy sneak away in tenth grade, hustling out before his parents notice he’s been gone. She owns her car. She has a class full of undergrads to teach tomorrow. In a few years, she’ll be Dr. Martin.

 

He turns to look back over his shoulder before he goes inside and catches her watching, still beaming, but slightly bashful. It completes that feeling and she realizes, all at once, that she’s missed it. She wants to freeze the moment and taste it again on demand.

 

“Lydia!” He startles, and she realizes how loud she is, blushing. “My name is Lydia!” 

 

He cups his around his mouth and shouts back, “Scott,” echoing back at him from the side of the house. He disappears then, shutting the bright red front door behind him. It was tan the last time she saw it. It looks horrible. She smiles.

 

Natalie Martin gets the third degree over dinner, but she doesn’t seem to mind much.


End file.
